


Blurred

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s03e05 War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-09
Updated: 2003-04-09
Packaged: 2019-05-15 05:36:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: He could not find the distinction for the shadows.





	Blurred

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Blurred**

**by:** Baked Goldfish 

**Category:** post War Crimes  
**Rating:** CHILD  
**Summary:** He could not find the distinction for the shadows.  
**Spoilers:** War Crimes (post-ep)  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine, no money being made, please don't sue me.  


The Washington Monument leaned over him, its shadow endless and ominous as he stood with his entourage of Secret Service agents on the green.  He would be boarding a plane soon, at two AM local time, for Texas.  But, for this moment, he was standing in the shadow of this lone pillar, looking up at it as it stretched into the night sky.  

In the light of the city at the death of night, he peered up at the obelisk; he could barely make out the line, the point about halfway up where the stones changed color slightly.  Somewhere, sometime, he'd learned that they'd stopped building the monument during the Civil War, and started up again afterwards.  The stones were older, and maybe from a different quarry, he couldn't remember.  But in the light of the city at night, he could just barely make out the line, unblurred, and distinct.

Behind him, his agents shifted slightly.  He thought, perhaps they might be uncomfortable standing there, in the middle of the night, in front of this ghostly pale monument that was lit up by countless footlights with flags all around it.  Turning, he motioned for them to step further back; he did not feel alone yet, even though the men in black suits blended into the dark background like so many shadows. They were unmoving, but always watching.  He stared back up at the Washington Monument, and he was suddenly thrown back to his childhood, when his father had first brought him to the nation's capital.  He must have been five, or six, and around half his current height.  The sunlight had seemed fake then, as if filtered through a camera instead of just the sky.  He had a voice, even then, and he had known as he'd stared up at the impossibly tall monument that he wanted to be heard.  He'd wanted to be president, because he'd wanted to say important things.  

He had a voice, he thought.  He had meaning.  It was not Bartlet's meaning; it was his own.  It used to be distinct, and loud, before this brainy New Hampshire citizen drowned it out.  He had his own voice.  He even used to know how to use it, once.  And now, he would go to Texas, to speak for his president.  To use his president's voice, because that's what vice presidents do.  They go mute, dumb, cut their tongues off and blindly follow their leaders.  He would go to Texas, as if the revelation to the public about the multiple sclerosis wasn't enough for a political homicide.  

He still wanted to say important things, and he still had his voice.  Except, now, it was muddled, and lost in the din of politics, indistinct.  He could not be heard, no matter how hard he yelled.  This was the time of Jed Bartlet, and he feared that, because he was standing in Jed Bartlet's shadow, his own time would never come.  He feared his time had already passed him by when he learned that making deals would make him more popular than putting his heartfelt views on the table.  He feared that, in going to Texas, he would, himself, fill the grave that his president had dug for him.  

The Washington Monument leaned over him, its shadow dangerous as he stood alone in the crowded city.  He would go to Texas, and feign belief in his president's voice, because that is what vice presidents do.  Even if it meant that his own voice would completely die in the process, it's what vice presidents do.

One of his agents cleared his throat, and he glanced at his watch.  It was fifteen minutes to two, and he needed to leave for Texas.  He turned away from the monument without even another glance at it, and strode confidently towards his car.  The agents piled in around him, stoic and seemingly emotionless.  As the line of cars pulled away from the starkly pale obelisk, he turned in his seat to face it.  

He could no longer make out the line at the midway point of the monument.  It was blurred, as if through water, and he could not find the distinction for the shadows.

-end-


End file.
